


Sleepover

by audreycritter



Category: DCU, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Self-Indulgent, Slight Emotional Hurt/Comfort, faint wonderbat flirting in the distance, gen - Freeform, movies - Freeform, night off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 13:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Superman is one of the world’s greatest— a symbol of hope and optimism. He’s also a hero with some very capable, but still vulnerable, friends. So, what do you do when Superman isn’t feeling very hopeful?





	Sleepover

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to jerseydevious for editing!!! 
> 
> Where is this in canon or continuity? I have literally no idea. Don’t care. It’s self-indulgent fluff to the core.

The conflict had been drawn out and violent and also the third that month; the frequency didn’t put a damper on the post-fight celebration. The hotel suite was a general chaos of baskets of vinegar fries, and balled-up burger wrappers strewn across table tops. There was a good-natured argument brewing about the merits of sales tax that promised to turn actually heated before the ice pack Hal was holding to the side of his head melted. 

They’d gotten off easy, and Bruce knew it. His right side ached, he had plenty of bruises and abrasions to keep him company for the next several days, but they were minor annoyances. 

What was more troubling was the fact that when Clark had asked him if he was _okay_—meaning ‘not bleeding copiously or hiding shattered bones under the suit’— Bruce had gruffly bitten off that he was fine. Clark had just nodded and moved away, through the noise of Ollie ordering food and people shouting requests.

It was unusual for Clark not to ask twice or stare him down for a bit, probably listening to Bruce’s heart rate, which he’d given up even trying to control if he was in any amount of serious pain or danger. Clark could, and had in the past, at least get the two of them out of post-victory celebrations without drawing attention.

He watched from an armchair in the corner of the room as Clark tugged another sour fry from a red paper basket and ate it. Bruce watched as the Kryptonian shot a furtive glance in Diana’s direction and then back to the dark windows overlooking the shimmering city skyline. Clark hadn’t looked at him in over twenty minutes, not a single ‘are you really okay or are you lying to me again’ stare.

Clark was unusually quiet, refusing to join in the argument between Ollie, Hal, and Barry or even attempting to pacify it. He drummed his fingers on his knee and then rubbed the back of his neck.

When he leaned forward as if to stand, then changed his mind and stayed seated, Bruce caught Diana’s gaze. She raised an eyebrow and nodded slightly toward Clark. Bruce nodded in return. 

It wasn’t often that Bruce felt their roles were reversed but it also wasn’t the first time. When the tax argument fizzled out into a half-hearted debate about sci-fi film reboots and Clark was _still_ quiet, Bruce left the burger and fries he’d barely touched and slipped through the back of the room toward the balcony. 

They were high enough that the night breeze had a stinging edge to it, so he drew the cape around his shoulders and perched on the concrete railing. He waited.

Minutes later, longer than it typically took Clark to note an absence, the sliding glass opened again and Clark stepped out onto the balcony behind him. 

Bruce felt a twinge of guilt about _why_ Clark was so predictable. He’d known from experience Clark would follow to check on Bruce even if Clark himself was upset about something else, but he shoved the guilt rooted in past behavior patterns down and focused. 

“You okay?” Clark asked, voice tense. He almost sounded angry, which gave Bruce slight pause. But only slight.

“Yes, but you aren’t,” Bruce said quietly, scanning the city below.

There was a small sigh and then boots scraping against the balcony flooring. In his peripheral vision, Bruce saw Clark lean his arms against the railing. The red cape dusted the floor beside the black one, the red hanging from limp, slouched shoulders and the black from a back limber with balancing on the balcony rail. Neither of them moved for a while and Bruce, again, waited. 

“I should have taken out the forcefield generator sooner,” Clark said, putting his head in his hands. “Before I went after the robots.”

“We took care of the generator,” Bruce said. 

“And it almost took your head off,” Clark said stiffly, tension rippling up his back and leaving him still as granite.

“But it didn’t,” Bruce answered, looking over. 

Clark sagged against his own palms. 

“It could have,” he said. “And if I’d just– that street wouldn’t have…some of the houses might have…” he trailed off and sighed again. “You know what? Never mind. I could have moved a bit faster and that’s all there is to it.”

Sometimes, Clark needed blunt honesty— having large portions of his life shrouded in necessary deceit made Clark value honesty where he could find it— but Bruce mulled over his answer. He wasn’t a stranger to being blunt, but he suspected that whatever was going on was deeper than second thoughts about battle strategy. He was willing to give it time. Clark looked ready to collapse next to him.

It stung more than the wind, the profound wrongness of someone so selfless and good suffering; it turned something jagged and sharp inside Bruce’s chest, a fracturing kind of hurt, at his inability to fix whatever was like a yoke of lead on Clark’s shoulders. He was glad Diana had understood, that things were already in motion for dealing with _this_ , because his bruises and exhaustion were inconsequential compared to the slow crumbling of the last few weeks.

It needed to stop.

“Go home, Clark.” Bruce reached out and put a hand on the bent shoulder closest to him. He gave it a brief squeeze. “Get some sleep.”

Clark looked back through the glass at the commotion inside. Bruce looked with him; there seemed to be a card game of some sort organizing. Barry was laughing and balancing a fry basket on one knee while he accepted hand of cards. Ollie was dealing and kept pausing in his count to sip from a tumbler. Someone had started music, but it was muted through the balcony glass. Outside, the wind whistled with a low keen among the upper stories.

“I’ll go,” Bruce said, after a pause. “They’ll think we left together for something.”

Then, finally, Clark nodded and sighed. “Alright. You’re right.” He floated up and over the railing, then hovered right outside the balcony. “Should I…do you think I should…at least tell them all…”

“Go, Clark,” Bruce said, a little gruffly. 

In a blink, Clark was gone.

For a few moments, Bruce kept his spot on the balcony and enjoyed the breeze. It would have been too cold if he’d been wearing less, but he still hadn’t changed out of the suit after the others had opted for a semi-public celebration venue. Now that things had settled down, he could feel his skin sticky and crawling with sweat.

The balcony door opened again and Diana joined him; she turned and leaned against the railing, facing the interior.

“Tonight?” she asked. “Did you actually tell him?”

“Tomorrow,” Bruce said. “And no.”

“He’s just stressed, Bruce,” Diana said. “That’s all. Just like last time.”

Bruce relaxed, somewhat, at that; he knew she was right and Diana didn’t lie. Not like him. It made it easier to shut out the worst case scenarios and accept it as something they’d both seen before. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked, pulling a grapple gun from his belt.

“Would you like a lift home?” Diana offered, regarding the grapple with an amused smirk. “Gotham’s a long way to swing.”

“I’ll manage,” Bruce said, sliding his thumb over the catch.

“Manage to be stubborn,” Diana retorted with a faint smile. 

Bruce froze with the grapple held out, ready to fire. He suppressed a sigh. “Are you insisting.”

“I just don’t know why’d you’d refuse. Are you avoiding my company?”

She was teasing him and he _knew_ it, but he still couldn’t bring himself to let it go.

“Fine. Yes, if you’re offering, a ride would be much faster.”

It’d be more pleasant than the zeta jumps he’d been planning on taking a long route home to avoid. The bruises and aching bones weren’t the worst they’d ever been, but adding a third round of nausea to the day wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

“I’ll meet you on the roof,” Diana said, clapping him hard on the back. He realigned the grapple gun for another angle and a breath later, was airborne.

* * *

The Kent apartment was quiet and Clark was restless. Ever since Lois had called to apologize and say she’d be working late on a story, he’d been more or less pacing around the apartment. She’d refused his offer of company, telling him to take a night off, that he _needed_ it. He knew he did.

Knowing that was what was keeping him inside, instead of out there in the city. He didn’t quite trust himself to hold his temper, so Lois’ reasoning was winning out against his desire to just go _do_ something. 

It didn’t still his pent up energy— the wrong kind of energy— and he almost called his parents half a dozen times just to talk to them, to know they were alright. But they’d ask about him and his Ma could read him like an open book even over the phone and he’d have to admit he didn’t know what was wrong. He was just…off.

He considered changing into the suit and going up to the Watchtower. He didn’t remember who had monitor duty, but it didn’t matter; he could swap with them and almost anyone would take him up on it without a fight. He’d just about made up his mind to do exactly that when there was a short, brief knock at the door.

Clark opened it without bothering to check who was on the other side, feeling reckless. He almost hoped he was opening it to a fight.

Bruce was standing there instead, in slacks and a turtleneck instead of the Batsuit. He had a slim leather briefcase hanging from his shoulder by a long strap and beside him, a paper sack in her arms, was Diana.

“I don’t know if—” Clark started to say, but Bruce stepped past him without waiting to be invited in. Diana followed. With a sigh, Clark shut the door. “I guess this proves you aren’t a vampire,” he said bitterly.

“We’re overdue for a night off,” Bruce said, ignoring the jab and tossing a few DVDs on the coffee table. He sat in front of them and began lining them up, in a neat and perfect row. 

“I’m putting snacks in the fridge,” Diana announced, heading for the kitchen with her bag.

“I was planning on going to bed early,” Clark said, running a hand through his hair while watching Bruce move the DVDs around again so they were in alphabetical order.

“No, you weren’t,” Bruce answered. 

Clark sighed, an aggravated noise more than a resigned one, and followed Diana into the kitchen. She was rummaging in the freezer and there were a few new things in the fridge, from the size of the empty bag folded on the counter.

“You need this,” she said, patting his shoulder as she passed him. “An evening off.”

For a moment, he stood in the empty kitchen with his eyes shut, convinced that if he pried open his eyelids he’d end up burning a hole in the counter. He tried, again and again in those slow seconds, to rein in the irritation tipping toward rage. He knew, he _knew_ it was stupid to be mad _at them_ but they were so wrapped up in his internal conflict that it was spilling over. Clark managed to crush the mounting fury into a dense knot in his chest, the weight of which made him feel immediately exhausted and drained. Suddenly, bed _did_ sound good. He blinked at the fridge and dragged himself back to the living room, where Bruce and Diana were already arguing about film choices.

“–not watching anything Dick recommended.”

“You must want to or you wouldn’t have brought it.”

“He was watching me take them off the shelf. I was being polite.”

“You mean avoiding an argument. And you put it with the other selections.”

“Being polite and avoiding an argument can be the same thing.”

They both looked up when Clark stopped at the end of the couch.

“Tiebreaker vote,” Bruce said, scowling for a moment when Diana stuck her tongue out at him. “Don’t be childish,” he said, immediately after. 

“Avoiding an argument,” she said again. Bruce exhaled.

Clark watched the exchange without moving, and then glanced over the titles of the two movies separated from the rest. One was _Hook_ and the other was _In the Mood for Love_. He didn’t bother reading the other titles. He shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Hook, then,” Bruce said, sounding like he was conceding. “There’s no point in starting a Wong Kar-wai film if you don’t care.”

“You’re just feeling silly because you _want_ to watch it,” Diana teased. “It doesn’t jive with your image.”

“No one says ‘jive’ anymore, Diana,” Bruce said, sounding long-suffering as he put the disk in and hunted for a remote. 

“Oh, did you conduct a survey?”

The usual, and familiar, civilian banter drifted around Clark without touching him. He sat down in front of the middle of the couch and leaned back against it. The movie started and Bruce reclaimed his spot on one end of the couch. On the other end, Diana sat forward.

“Pause this,” she ordered. “I am going to get a snack. Would you like anything, Clark?”

“No, thanks,” Clark said.

“We’re not even past the production title cards,” Bruce grumbled, pausing anyway. Diana left the room and Bruce twisted on the couch. “Wait. What if I wanted something?”

“You’re very capable,” Diana called back. She returned with a pint of ice cream and Bruce pressed play again. 

They were past the opening credits when Bruce leaned across the couch behind Clark’s head. Diana asked a half-second later, “Did you just have that spoon with you? In your pocket?”

“I’m always prepared,” Bruce replied.

“Get your own ice cream.” From the corner of his eye, Clark could see Diana holding the pint out and away from the couch.

“That is my own ice cream,” Bruce replied evenly. “I paid for it.”

It was the same bickering they went through almost every time they got together and rather than feel reassuring in its familiarity, it made Clark feel increasingly uneasy. That led back around to the still-heavy anger and to a dense cloud of exhaustion. Maybe it was the tenseness in his shoulders or a chill in the air, but Bruce and Diana grew quiet. 

After a while, she flicked the living room overhead light off, leaving just a lamp in the corner. Sound spilled from the speakers and something dramatic was happening on screen, but Clark wasn’t paying attention. He was _trying_ , because a distraction would have been nice, but it was hard when he was stuck in a loop.

 _I keep closing my eyes just to watch you die,_ he both wanted to tell them and never wanted to say. _Because even with everything I can do, I can’t save everyone. I can’t be fast enough or attentive enough and one nanosecond could make the difference to coming back with or without you._

Bruce had ended up with the pint at some point and the empty container went onto the coffee table. Clark got up to throw it away, wanting an excuse to leave.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bruce said.

“Alfred isn’t here to take care of it,” Clark snapped, instantly feeling remorsefully juvenile. He stepped over Bruce’s legs and fled the room. Bruce didn’t follow or speak and Clark wished he’d been looking at his face, so he could judge how deeply it had cut, if at all. He threw the carton in the trash and leaned on the counter, trying to calm down.

 _Calm down_ , he told himself. _But what about the times I don’t even know you’re fighting? Do you know how much I dread the phone ringing some days?_

When he slipped back into the living room, it was with every intention of trying to kick them out, as gently as possible. He found he couldn’t do it. Clark ran a hand through his stiff hair and sat back down in front of the couch. 

Clark had only been sitting there for a minute when he heard and sensed movement, and knew Bruce had shifted to sit behind him. A second later, firm hands landed on his shoulders and began massaging muscles built by sun.

“What are you doing?” Clark asked, even though it didn’t feel bad in the least.

“Reminding you that I’m here,” Bruce said, not even pausing. 

_Here and alive and in one piece,_ Clark read underneath it. So, they had known, or guessed, after all. He put his head in his hands and let out a shaky breath. Diana reached forward and patted his head.

“I will hug you after Bruce also gives me a massage.”

“Not happening,” Bruce said.

“You owe me for the ice cream.”

“I owe you for the ice cream that I bought? How do you even manage to keep your own accounts.”

“I’ll forgive your debt if I am next,” Diana said. “Do you think Clark will braid my hair?”

“This is not that kind of sleepover.”

“I must make do with what I have,” Diana said, in that tone where Clark still couldn’t tell if she was earnest or exaggerating. Bruce snorted and his hands stilled on Clark’s shoulders, but didn’t move away.

“Clark. Can you braid hair.”

“Nope,” Clark said against his own palms. He was still pressing them against his face as the tension leaked out of him. No one was dead, no one was likely to be dead or injured soon. 

“Clark has to give you a massage,” Bruce decided. 

“Wait. How’s that fair?” Clark asked, finally looking up.

“I can braid hair,” Bruce replied with a completely serious expression. 

Diana clapped and slipped off the couch to sit next to Clark. “Excellent. You will do both. It’s Clark’s night off.”

There was an unintelligible grumble from Bruce and he slid over on the couch and moved his hands from Clark’s shoulders to Diana’s.

“Don’t start gloating just because you’ve got us both wrapped around your little finger,” Clark warned her good naturedly, turning to watch Bruce’s fingers twist hair a few minutes later. “I’m going to make popcorn. Don’t pause it.”

“Hold still,” Bruce said, to Diana, holding the half-finished braid with one hand while reaching for the remote.

“I said don’t pause it!” Clark protested, when the images on the screen froze.

“Making popcorn isn’t quiet. We might as well wai— Diana, I said hold still!” Bruce stared at the rope of hair that had slipped through his crooked fingers and was now a blended mess of strands.

Diana, having swiveled to look at Clark behind them, flashed Clark a bright smile. “Make enough popcorn for me, please?”

He nodded and went into the kitchen, listening to the conversation going on behind him. 

“Diana,” Bruce said flatly, as Clark opened a box of microwave popcorn bags. 

“I guess you’ll have to start over,” she said sweetly. Clark put one in the microwave and pressed the button.

“For someone who prides herself on honesty, you make frequent use of subterfuge,” Bruce accused.

“I wanted popcorn,” Diana said. The hum of the appliance almost drowned it out, but Clark had good ears and no qualms about eavesdropping here. It was a little reassuring.

 _This is what you’d lose_ , a tiny whisper in the back of his mind came then, with the whine of the microwave motor. 

“Misdirection isn’t—” Bruce started and cut himself off. “No. Don’t make this about the picnic.”

“Oh? I simply wanted popcorn. Did you feel guilty about something?”

 _Having this now is what matters_ , he argued. 

The microwave beeped.

Clark snatched the hot bag out, tore the top and upended it over a bowl, and carried the bowl to the living room. 

“Popcorn,” he announced, and the conversation between Diana and Bruce shifted away from whatever track it had gone down. Her braid had been tied off with something and she moved back up on the couch. Clark took the other end. 

The movie started playing again while Clark held the bowl out in front of Bruce. Diana grabbed a handful, her legs curled up as she munched on it. Clark shook the bowl in front of Bruce’s face.

“No, thank you,” came the response. 

Clark shook it again, the puffed kernels dancing in the bowl. “Are you doing that thing where you don’t eat or…” He didn’t hide the note of warning in his tone.

“I ate. Diana’s ice cream,” Bruce retorted, eyes locked on the screen. “I don’t like the aftertaste.”

“So, snobbery,” Clark decided, offering the bowl to Diana again before settling back. 

“You admit it _was_ my ice cream,” Diana exclaimed, sounding pleased.

“I bought it for you,” Bruce grumbled, sounding pained. “Should I pause this again? Is anyone paying attention?”

“And you _do_ like this film.” Diana didn’t mask any of her delight. 

Clark grinned.

By the time the credits started rolling, Bruce had fallen asleep stretched out on the floor in front of the coffee table, and Clark and Diana had moved closer together for more strategic popcorn sharing.

She half stood, and leaned forward to look down. Then she rejoined Clark and nudged his shoulder.

“How are you really doing?” she asked, quietly, seriously. 

“Not the best,” he said, still trying not to think about close calls the past few missions. It was hard not to focus on them when there were so many. But, then again, they had all survived and had a mostly good track record for doing so. “But better,” he tacked on.

“Good,” she said. 

“Tonight is helping,” he said, scraping bits of salt and hard kernels together with a finger. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. I’m enjoying it, too.” 

The door unlocked and swung open and they both looked up. Lois walked in, her purse swinging from one shoulder, and she surveyed the living room without much surprise.

“You know his head is under the table, right?” she commented, with a nod. Clark glanced; Bruce had rolled over or shifted and his face was, in fact, hidden by the table. 

He picked the table up and moved it a few feet. Bruce, in his sleep, grimaced and a split second later, there was a plaintive whine: “Al, it’s too bright.”

Diana laughed and Lois rolled her eyes. She dropped her purse and walked to the couch, sinking back on the cushions next to Clark to peer into the popcorn bowl. 

“Sorry,” he said, when she saw it was empty. “Did you get dinner?”

“Take-out,” Lois answered.

“There’s ice cream in the freezer,” Diana said, “and cheesecake in the refrigerator.”

“Well, I _was_ going to kiss Clark goodnight and go to bed,” Lois said, kissing his cheek anyway. “But I’ll stay up for that. What are we watching next? I’m crashing your party, by the way.”

“Bruce tapped out,” Clark said. “We have an opening.”

“Didn’t,” came a stubborn refusal from the floor. “Just taking a break.”

“You’re welcome to crash our party,” Diana invited, looking over the movies. “You can help pick, if you like.”

Clark’s phone, on a shelf across the room, buzzed. He contemplated ignoring it, but Lois got up and announced she was going to find the cheesecake, and he got up anyway. He held his thumb against the button and it unlocked. There was a text, from Bruce.

<You ok?>

Clark looked up, catching the brief end of Bruce’s quiet, concerned gaze across the living room. The other man was still on the floor, phone held in front of his face like he was scrolling news pages or other messages. 

Sending the reply took a half second to type.

<yeah, I am :) >


End file.
